Manhattan Mono- posters and booket for a silent film festival in New York
Think of two people, living together day after day, year after year, in this small space, standing elbow to elbow, cooking at the same small stove, squeezing past each other on the narrow stairs, shaving in front of the same small bathroom mirror, constantly jogging, jostling, bumping against each other’s bodies by mistake or on purpouse, sensually, aggressively, awkwardly, impatiently, in rage or in love - think what deep though invisible tracks they must leave, everywhere, behind them. - excerpt from A Single Man By Chris Isherwood.
Oedipus, your grim life, your dragging of yourself through life with all its breathing in and out, its waking and sleeping, its slow hours. In whatever corner you hide. In your dank bed. You hear me. Come out.
Wake up. Dress yourself in clothes that define you. Give yourself a definition. Mark yourself, so as to fit in, or fit out, or protect yourself by feigning indifference. It is of no consequence. You will be forgotten as time cycles onward, like that wrapper or cigarette carton you threw in the garbage today. You will decompose and your definition will become saturated with synonyms and lost in an etymological junkyard.
(Source: thoughtcatalog.com)
